


Estelle; or, Virtue Corrupted

by singswithtrees



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux
Genre: F/M, Melodrama, Original Character(s), Seduction, lots implied, sexy dialog but no explicit sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-28
Updated: 2019-07-04
Packaged: 2019-11-06 21:04:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 6,240
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17947085
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/singswithtrees/pseuds/singswithtrees
Summary: Estelle Claudin, a young writer for a ladies' journal, runs into one of Erik's old acquaintances from his circus days, and hijinks ensue.AKA, posting this just for the fun of it!  I wrote this almost 20 years ago, and it definitely shows, but I have left it in its original form for old times' sake.  This fic was written as a tie-in/spinoff of a dear friend's epic fic/novel, Confessions of An Opera Ghost, which she is currently in the process of rewriting(you can find it over here: https://www.fanfiction.net/u/9111305/DarkLadyVorvick).  Yes, Estelle is totally a self-insert. ^_^  Donnavan is a character from Confessions, as is Jeanette (mentioned later in the story).  Donnavan is the magician and Don Juan of the circus that Erik is part of, and Jeanette is Erik's imaginary little sister.Yes, the scenery is thoroughly chewed in this piece, and the melodrama is hella juicy.  Enjoy!





	1. In Which Our Heroine Is Introduced

**Author's Note:**

  * For [DarkLadyVorvick](https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkLadyVorvick/gifts).



Estelle Claudin shifted uncomfortably in her place on the half-rotted bench, trying to no avail to prevent her left leg from falling asleep. She had come to this rather shoddy excuse for a circus on the outskirts of Paris in hopes of finding an appropriate theme for her next travel article. Sideshow performers often provided wonderfully sympathetic stories, she had discovered. Stories with which to make the lady readers of the magazine weep and call for their smelling salts. Denied such a life herself, she found a small amount of satisfaction in at least imagining their reactions.

Five years previous to the current one, 1882, Estelle had set off in search of an elder brother whom she had never met. In the process of her quest, however, she had found a small income necessary to retain a certain level of personal ease. Thus, she had become a traveling reporter for a ladies’ journal, her only “companions” being a steamer trunk and a conspicuously large satchel. The former stored her modest wardrobe--two day dresses, her one ball gown (sadly out of date), and three mens’ suits. Though she much preferred to remain feminine, Estelle had realized within her first year of writing that a woman alone on the Continent was vulnerable to all manner of ills. For convenience’s sake she had adopted a man’s garb and, to a lesser extent, mannerisms. Estelle had to admit that trousers allowed one more freedom when moving, but they would never replace the simple pleasure of a satin gown for her. However, she was well suited to playing a man.

There are two types of women in the world--those with the slim, sylphlike bodies and unearthly grace, and those who were more solidly built. Estelle Claudin fell into the latter category. Though she did have the lines and shape of a woman, she was simply more substantial than others. Clumsy as she might look, her face had a certain sweet charm. It was round and pleasant, with smiling eyes the deep, soulful brown of a cow’s and rosy cheeks. This visage was framed by curling walnut-colored hair, long but tucked beneath a soft black felt hat when she masqueraded as a man. All in all, a portrait of what one imagines the kindly mother or maiden aunt to look like in a storybook.

Here she sat, on a beautiful afternoon when she could happily be elsewhere, and yet she awaited the appearance of “Donnavan the Great”, as the faded red paint advertised. From what Estelle had seen in the sweltering tents and dusty, antique menagerie, she knew better than to expect anything spectacular. She had experienced disappointment enough over the years, and so was prepared for the worst. It never happened.

Within the span of a few minutes a large and varied crowd had assembled. Mostly of the poorer class and female, they jammed the area about the stage, making the benches creak in protestation from their combined weight. Two or three of the gaudier-dressed women present began to pester “kind monsieur” about spending an evening with them, and Claudin found it necessary to move to a different seat. As she at last settled herself and the group’s raucous jabbering abated, the much-advertised Donnavan the Great strode to center stage. Immediately, the crowd let out a communal exhalation of awe and admiration.

Though he had already performed several tricks, it was not until the magician asked for her assistance with his next feat that Estelle was snapped back to reality. She had been far too preoccupied scribbling down rapid notes on his appearance to focus her attention on any other subject. Estelle Claudin had gazed upon impressive or otherwise statuesque men before, but Donnavan the Great was a force of Nature.

Had he lived during the days when the Roman Empire held sway, Donnavan would easily have been mistaken for a hero of the Hercules persuasion. Certain individuals reminded Estelle of animals in their physiques or attitudes. The beast that she associated Donnavan with was a war-horse, the proud, majestic animals that carried the knights of old into battle. Some men had “barrel chests”; his was good for a keg or three at least. His face, with its squared jawline and “classic” nose, along with his cropped, curling salt-and-pepper hair showed signs of slight age, but his languid brown eyes still held all the mischievousness of youth within their scope. Clad in a decidedly wrinkled ivory poet’s blouse, dark, comfortable trousers, and all-purpose leather boots, he was a vision that any woman would fall for.

“Once again, Monsieur--would you kindly step up to the stage and assist me?” Donnavan queried, voice deep and sonorous. He gestured grandly to the set of two steps that led up to the stage as if they were upholstered in red velvet, rather than dust and several unidentifiable types of mold. In response Estelle nodded curtly, shoving her battered notebook into a pocket, and strode confidently up the stair. At close range, the magician was even more impressive. Despite herself, she had to admit that she admired the man. He stood slightly upstage and to her right, radiating self-confidence without being overly smug or proud.

“Now, we have never met before, have we, Monsieur?” he asked, more a statement for the audience’s benefit than an actual question. Donnavan’s eyes inspected her every feature, and Estelle shifted her shoulders back nervously to appear more masculine. She did not generally mind curious stares, but this man’s was so intensely penetrating that it almost frightened her. Luckily, Estelle didn’t scare easily. Or so she hoped.

“No, Monsieur, we have not,” she replied, resolving to stay on the stage, despite her inhibitions.

At the sounding of Estelle’s last word, Donnavan’s impromptu inspection of her form ceased. “I am sorry, Monsieur, but I am afraid that you won’t work for this particular act. May I have another volunteer?” He drew closer to the edge of the stage as though to escort her off, keeping his left hand on her shoulder the entire time. Though he kept his eyes averted, Estelle could tell that there was an impish glint to them. When they reached the edge of the platform, he leaned over and whispered, “Come and talk with me after the show, Mademoiselle. I’d appreciate it, and there are a few choice things I’d like to know about you.” After subtly stroking her shoulder, Donnavan the Great released Estelle, allowing her to return to the audience once again.

Estelle wandered back to her seat, but found that it had been taken up by a filthy and bruised youth of doubtful disposition. Rather than risking a fight with the young man she stood nearby, writing down cautious notes and asking herself how he had discovered her true identity.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Estelle gets her interview, and a whole lot of flirting and philosophizing.

The flame in Donnavan’s cheap oil lamp came dangerously close to guttering out entirely as Estelle pushed back the flap to his tent. She glanced around guardedly, inspecting the area for any signs of persons that didn’t belong. She saw none; only the magician occupied the room, lounging easily across the entire length of his bunk. By the shallow, regular movements of his chest, she could tell that he was deep in slumber. Not wishing to intrude upon him, she decided to wait for him to awaken on his own, resorting instead to writing down questions that she desired to ask him for her article. The presence of a woman in the tent seemed to trigger some reflex in D’s unconscious, and he was awake within a few minutes of her arrival.

“Ah, Mademoiselle,” he said, yawning elaborately, one eye cracked open. “I hoped that you’d come. Sorry that you had to catch me at such an inopportune time. Trust me, I’m far more interesting when I’m awake,” he remarked, eyeing her notebook with considerable curiosity. “What’s that for?”

“I am a writer,” Estelle replied tersely, struggling to retain her objectivity as she scratched the back of her neck with her pencil. Several of her past subjects had been charming or good-natured, but this man was the most disarmingly charismatic person that she had ever met. If he agreed to an interview--and she suspected he would--she’d have to be sure to take him down, word for word. This promised to be one of her best articles yet; she might even pay to have a tintype taken of Donnavan, as a reference for the magazine’s artist. However, despite this exciting thought, Claudin knew that she ought to keep her distance, stay disinterested.

“Yes, well, I can see that.” Donnavan’s sides shook gently as he chuckled, and his mouth twisted itself into a droll grin. “But a writer of what? Recipes, children’s books, literary criticism? If it’s the first one, you’d do well to stay away from our cook. He can’t seem to manage anything more original than beef stew most of the time, and it’s never been appetizing. Let’s see--poetry, medical texts, stories of romance and intrigue…” Estelle grimaced at this last one, and he stopped ticking off the various types of compositions on his fingers.

Consequently, his smile grew broader, and the haze flame of the lamp illuminated his eyes all the more. “Maybe not the last one, but I had to ask.” The intense gaze that Estelle had noticed before had grown more pronounced, partially obliterating her feeling of relative security.

“I am a writer of travel articles for a ladies’ journal, and should like to request an interview with you, Monsieur--” Claudin said politely, hesitating when she found that she did not know the performer’s last name. He seemed amiable enough, but to call him simply “Donnavan” might make her appear rough and unrefined. It was something that she had fought against ever since boarding school, and she desperately did not want her old habits to return once again.  
“Piscarro,” the magician supplied, springing to his feet with surprising lightness. “Donnavan Viktor Piscarro, magician, roustabout, and poet, at your humble service, Mademoiselle--” Donnavan in turn paused at the end of the bow that he had just executed. Leaving one arm outstretched, he raised his eyes to look at her directly. It was obvious that he was asking her name. Though she would usually be far more reluctant to give out such pertinent information, something in his personality suggested an odd sort of integrity to Estelle. Donnavan could be unnerving, but she felt that he could also be trusted.

“Estelle Claudin, Monsieur Piscarro.”

“Please--no formalities. Just Donnavan.” Stepping forward, the tall man took her right hand and kissed it. “And I’ll call you Estelle--it suits you far better than ‘Mademoiselle Claudin’ ever could.” He wrinkled his nose slightly, and grimaced at the cacophonous sound. “Would you take your hat off, please? There, now--that’s much better. As a man you look boyish, but as a woman...in this light, you are exquisite.” Donnavan’s unoccupied hand stole behind her head to absently finger a strand of her long brunette hair. Not used to this sort of undivided attention from anyone, much less someone male, Estelle instinctively jerked away, wrenching both hand and hair out of his grasp.

“Monsieur Piscarro--”

“Estelle, please...Donnavan.”

“Donnavan,” she sighed wearily, you are an impetuous rogue. You do remember that I came here purely for an interview, I hope?”

“Are you sure?”

“Quite sure. Which reminds me of the first question that i intended to ask you: how did you come to realize that I was a woman? I had thought that my disguise was more concealing than that.”

Donnavan shrugged his shoulders, a gesture that communicated more than mere words could. “No, the disguise was good. Very good. I’ve just been a magician for so long that it’s hard for me to meet someone anymore without reading them like an open book, page by page. With you, I think it was your walk that gave you away. There’s too much grace, too much poetry in your stride for you to ever be completely convincing. And your face is too sensitive, your eyes too beautiful, your skin too much like ivory silk with a blush the color of roses to be masculine.” Estelle’s heart began to pound wildly against her ribcage as he reached out a strong hand and ran a finger down the line of her jugular. That was not the touch of a surly workman, but of an artist, one who pursued his chosen craft every chance that was given. From deep within her seemed to come a feeling of release, a letting go of the tension that she had lived with since childhood. She didn’t wish to admit it, even secretly, but the shiver of pleasure that his touch had sent running down her neck had felt good, and she had enjoyed it.  
“Monsieur Donnavan, you are impossible!” Estelle exclaimed, raising her notebook to fend him off and retreating to a far corner of the tent. Her thoughts were now hopelessly entangled with one another, and she doubted that they would ever be put into order again.

Donnavan grinned; again came that welcoming expression, offset by a gaze made of dancing campfires and midnight serenades on a lonely guitar. “Thanks. I appreciate the compliment. You’re very impossible, yourself.”

“What do you mean by that?” Claudin queried, readying her pencil to take down his explanation. At last, she would be able to get something printable out of the magician! Patience paid off, after all. Toying thoughtfully with a dented tin cup, he wasn’t likely to notice her scribing actions until after he’d finished giving her what she needed.

An odd feeling of regret that he was sitting across the tent welled up, but Estelle quickly reprimanded herself for such a frivolous thought. She was a grown woman, and it was not her place to be thinking about Donnavan in that manner.

“Possible people have always bothered me. They’re the ones who lead dull, uninteresting lives, without change from one day to the next. Bake the bread, shoe the horse, care for the baby--whatever it is that’s their duty becomes their prison as well. Whatever dreams they may have had in youth of excitement, adventure, or passion are all gone, dwindled down to nothing. They’ve lost any sense of humor or fun that they used to have, and lost their grasp on life as well. It’s not a game any more. Rather, it’s become a chore. I can’t live like that.

“Far better to be a fool, a poet, a dreamer, a lover, a madman than to live every day the same as the last. The impossible people are the ones who, in some small way, defy sensibility. We’re both fine examples. I’m a magician with a traveling circus, for instance, and your writing--” The mouse-scratching of pencil on paper distracted him, and he looked up to see Estelle engrossed in her notes. “No, not that. Not now, Estelle. I have another show in a few minutes, so there’s no time for an interview right now. However, if you’d come back after sundown…”

“I’m afraid that I cannot return tonight, for I’m attending Faust at the Palace Garnier.” An idea suddenly occurred to Estelle, and a slow smile began to spread across her face. “I do, however, have two tickets that were supplied for me, compliments of the Ladies’ Gazette, and will need an escort. They are good seats--Box Five, in fact. Would you...would you care to accompany me? Forgive me if I sound brazen, but perhaps we could continue the interview there in more privacy than we have here.” A deep blush clouded her cheeks, and she began to fidget nervously with her pencil. Estelle was slightly ashamed of herself--she had just uttered words that only a low woman could say with impunity.

Fortunately, the prodigious man didn’t seem to mind. Quite to the contrary; he again took her hand and brushed it with his lips, with considerable more passion than last time. “I would be honored to accompany such a vision of beauty as yourself. Consider me there already.”  
“Thank you. That is very kind of you...Donnavan. This article is of great importance to me.”

“It’s nothing, really. I’ll meet you at the Opera at half past six, then.” With one last sidelong glance at Donnavan from the tent’s entrance, Estelle left for her hotel. The emotions that had awakened within her after a long period of dormancy would not be easy to put to rest. Perhaps preparing for the opera performance that night would aid in easing her discomfort.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which terrible poetry is revealed.

The grande escalier of the Paris Opera shimmered with a life of its own. Everything--walls, ceiling, stairs--seemed cast from bronze or warm liquid gold, muted strains of color spilling out hazily across the area. The patches of pastel highlights that danced randomly on the walls were echoed by the gowns of the ladies in attendance that night. They resembled some marvelous flock of exotic birds, come together to show off their finery for an evening. Every hue imaginable was represented, as well as a few that seemed to have been invented purely for the occasion.

Estelle herself was dressed in a vivid emerald gown, slightly faded ice blue roses providing delicate accents upon the shoulders, bodice, and skirt. Though of the style fashionable perhaps six or seven years previous, it suited her well. Her hair had been drawn up in an elaborate coiffure (with the aid of the one of the hotel’s chambermaids), and a single topaz to match the dress’ floral accents nestled in the hollow of her throat.

At the moment she was a portrait of strained elegance, eyes scanning the islands of people. Donnavan was late, and though she didn’t wish to appear so, Claudin was anxiously awaiting his arrival. If he didn’t show himself soon, their interview time would be cut short, and she would have to return to the sideshow the following day to complete it. And, oddly enough, Estelle found that she enjoyed his company. He could be a trifle forward at times, but his easygoing, personable nature more than made up for that. If only he would show up…

Just as Estelle looked about the entrance a final time, she felt a broad, warm weight settle itself firmly on her shoulder. Fearing that it might be one of the less sober audience members, she swiveled around. To her immense relief and satisfaction it proved to be Piscarro, outfitted in a dashing suit and tails. The formal knee breeches were his own, and seemed to fit all right, but the rest of the ensemble was obviously borrowed. From gloves to vest, nothing was quite the proper size, and the shirt’s buttons looked as if they would pop off at random. However, his tie was on straight, and the pleasant expression that ornamented his face made it easier for Estelle to stifle the laugh that had been threatening to escape her.

Without removing his gaze from her face or his gloved hand from her shoulder, Donnavan brought out a bouquet of deep purple gladiolus and a folded sheet of paper from behind his back, presenting them to her with a grand flourish. “For you, Estelle--flowers for the flower,” he intoned.

“They’re lovely,” Estelle gasped, bringing the blossoms to her face to examine them more closely. “I don’t believe that I have ever seen such a color before. And the scent is absolutely heavenly!”

“No more heavenly than you look tonight. If you had wings, you could very well be the angel of the Opera herself.”

“What is this?” she puzzled, unfolding the paper carefully. It was stained with splashes of oil and inkblots, but she could still make out the words.

“My love, thou art more beautiful by far  
Than any ancient Greek Venus made of stone;  
Thou art, in Heaven’s scope, a star  
Whose radiance outshines that of sun and moon.  
Thy brightness guides my way both day and night  
And lights the winding path that leads to thee.  
Upon arriving, thy visage fills my sight  
Reminder of the love that shall always be.  
Thou art the very rose of my faint soul--  
My heart, when beating, murmurs thy sweet name  
When I see thee, thou dost myself console  
‘Gainst any previous fear or shame.  
Darling, let me, with loving arms, enfold  
Thy graceful form, and dream of true love untold.”

Estelle was dismayed by the quality of the poem. It was easily one of the worst things that she had ever read, but she most certainly couldn’t tell him that. She had to choose her words carefully, then. “Is this to be published? I could edit it for you, if you like.”

“No, I wrote it only for you.”

“You did?”

“Do you like it?”

“Yes, well, it’s very...um...interesting,” she said, for want of a better word. This conversation was turning the wrong way very quickly, and for once she had no idea as to how to change it to her advantage. Thankfully, Donnavan did. Walking leisurely to her left side, he proffered his arm and, taking up her hand, entwined it with his own.

“Shall we?” he asked, indicating the stairs with an upward tilt of his chin.

“I would love to,” she replied, lifting her hem and taking the first step towards Box Five.

Fifteen minutes later, with the aid of a woman named Mame, Estelle and Donnavan had found their seats. Though they had arrived early to ensure an ample amount of time for the interview, neither of them could find anything to say to one another. Estelle was fairly certain that she had once written down questions to ask him, many of them very good, but she was now drawing a blank. The awkward silence only accentuated that fact. Notebook in one hand, she fidgeted unconsciously with her satchel with the other. What to ask?

“So...tell me about some of the other performers that you’ve worked with. What were they like?”

“Well, there was Marutka, the three-armed woman from Romania. She and I had a very intimate friendship.” Donnavan’s brow furrowed in thought. Meanwhile, he surreptitiously snaked one hand around her back to caress her shoulder, making sure to begin lightly at first. The back of her bodice was rather low-cut, making his job that much easier. “Ah, and then there was Erik, ‘the Living Corpse’. Nice fellow, bit quiet. He wore a mask most of the time--hideously deformed face, no nose--and was particularly skilled with the violin.” He pursed his lips distastefully.

Estelle turned to look him in the eye, foiling his preliminary attempt to seduce her. His fingers hadn’t even made contact with her skin yet when she began to speak. Donnavan was not dismayed, however, and merely adjusted his arm’s position slightly. At the moment, she didn’t seem to notice.

“Erik? His name was Erik? You say that he wore a mask to cover his face? No nose?” she asked insistently, her pencil quivering in her hand. Not only did this promise to be an intriguing interview, but here was a further lead in the near-obsession that she had been pursuing for years. Her mother had died shortly before Estelle turned twenty. Though there had never been anything more positive than indifference between them, some odd emotion had prompted her to tell Estelle, on her deathbed, of her elder brother. The child that she had borne sixteen years before her daughter, the freak. Through the dying woman’s incoherent ramblings, Estelle had been able to make out the words “mask”, “monstrosity”, and “noseless”. That had been the basis of her search, which had remained fruitless until now. If Donnavan knew her brother, perhaps he also knew of his present whereabouts.

Without warning, a strange tingling began to spread its way across her bare back. There seemed to be warmth associated with the feeling, and she glanced pensively over her left shoulder. Once she had discovered the source of the sensation, she turned to address its perpetrator directly. “Monsieur Piscarro--Donnavan--would you kindly remove your hand from my shoulder?” Donnavan made a slight move with his fingers, and her clutch on her chair’s arm grew more determined as he began caressing her neck instead. She shouldn’t be allowing him to touch her in such a roguish fashion. It was wrong, perhaps even sinful, but Donnavan’s large hand dancing across her skin felt glorious. Estelle knew that it was wicked of her, but she genuinely did not want him to stop. With the greatest reluctance, she jerked her head away, intending the motion to separate the two of them. Instead, she succeeded only in catching his shirtsleeve’s button in her hair.

“Here. Stand up--it’ll make it easier to get untangled,” Donnavan suggested, not letting the slightest hint of his amorous plan show on his face. The moment was at hand, and he had to act quickly; Estelle had “warmed up to him”, but unless he did something about it, her change in attitude wouldn’t last long. After struggling with the belligerent item of apparel and working it gently out of Claudin’s hair, Donnavan smoothly wrapped one arm about her waist, keeping the other near the base of her neck. As though mesmerized, she allowed herself to be puller up close against his chest, so close that she could see the individual wrinkles and creases in his shirt. Before even the faintest thought of escape occurred to Estelle, he lifted her chin so that their lips were level, and kissed her.

Every social more that she had ever read, learned in school, or written on for an article had just been erased from existence, and Estelle didn’t care. Any past confusion was gone now, and her mind was awash with one incredible rush of adrenaline. Her original endeavor was all but forgotten, and all she wanted was for Donnavan to kiss her again. The magician didn’t seem to mind the prospect either, and was on the verge of carrying it out when the music began.

Snapped out of her reverie, Estelle twisted loose of Donnavan’s arms and walked to the ornate railing of Box Five. Undaunted, he followed her to the edge, and stood overlooking the entirety of the Opera in all its splendor. Donnavan grinned; Estelle was so completely engrossed in the Gounod that she did not notice his discarded coat, vest, gloves, and tie, lying abandoned near his chair. Did not notice him as he silently unbuttoned his shirt, or the soft noise like a cat treading on velvet as he embraced her from behind.

“Listen--the orchestra is beginning to play! Perhaps we should…” she gasped as Donnavan nuzzled her neck, then relaxed into a hazy sort of half-reality. 

The orchestra swelled into the overture of Faust, and the entire audience sat in eager anticipation of the performance. Everyone, that is, except for the occupants of Box Five. From that area, a single sound emanated.

“Donnavan, please don’t bite me...you’ll leave marks.”


	4. Chapter 4

_The inner surface of the marble column was almost as cool as the murky subterranean lake beneath the Opera, and was comfortingly familiar under Erik’s fingers. He had known stone for most of his life, from the bricks of the Palace Garnier, which he himself had helped to lay, to the harsher granite that had comprised his mother’s heart. It was solid and reliable and, as was the case with this pillar, amplified sound quite satisfactorily. From within his hiding place, he could play out his role as the Opera Ghost to his heart’s content, unseen but undeniably present. He occasionally enjoyed appearing and scaring the ballet girls out of their wits, but tonight he was feeling fairly reserved. A little ventriloquism would probably suffice._

_“Yes, but whose voice should I imitate? Maybe Marie’s, in the middle of the first act?” Erik chuckled to himself, though softly;_ **this** _was going to be a night to remember. And if another ‘Opera Ghost’ legend started up because of this incident, so much the better. Marie would certainly appreciate that. “If only there were room enough within the pillar to have allowed her to join me. Marie is so much better at her own voice than I am…”_

_“Of course she is, silly,” Jeanette giggled, causing Erik to start a bit. Under normal circumstances it wouldn’t have bothered him, but in such close quarters any sudden movement on his part had the potential for injury. “It’s her voice, after all.”_

_“Jeanette, would you kindly refrain from doing that in the future?”_

_“Did I scare you? Huh? Can I do it again?” Without waiting for a reply, she drew her face up into a grotesque pose and leered at her brother. “Boo!”_

_“You certainly did not frighten me, and furthermore…”_

_“I did so! The look on your face! Imagine, the great Phantom of the Opera himself, afraid of his own little sister…” Jeanette’s mirth at Erik’s shaken attitude abruptly vanished when he silenced her with a warning gesture of his finger._

_“Ssshhhhh. Please, none of your impertinence now, dear. I need to discover what sort of people Poligny has sold my box to this time, and to do that, I need to hear their voices.”_

_Jeanette’s seemingly innocent smile broadened. Even in the solid darkness, Erik could see her vividly blue eyes cloud and shift to green. “Oh, I see. You’re going to play a trick on them, aren’t you? Can I help?”_

_“In answer to your questions, yes and no. And the word is ‘May I’, not ‘Can I’. Now once again, please do be quiet. I want to find out what kind of--” The end of the sentence was swallowed up by the jarring noise of flesh colliding with stone. It was an almost inconspicuously soft thud, but it immediately caught his attention. “What in heaven’s name was_ **that** _?”_

Erik’s question was answered by the voice of a young woman. She sounded warmly intellectual, but at the moment particularly breathless and flustered.

“Monsieur, I do not mind it if you kiss me, but kindly rebutton my dress and keep your hands off of my undergarments.”

A laughing, decidedly masculine baritone answered her indirectly. “Ah, so you don’t mind if I kiss you? Here, perhaps?” There was a sharp intake of air on the woman’s part. “Or here?” Again the almost painful, fluttering gasp. “Here?” _Erik cringed as the anonymous lady backed further into the pillar, and her partially exposed corset and bustle scraped metallically against the marble._

_“This is_ **not** _happening,” he moaned unbelievingly. “Not here, and not now. It’s happened in some of the other boxes, in the dressing rooms, backstage...but not in my box! This is_ **Box Five** _! Didn’t Marie warn them that it was “haunted by the Opera Ghost”? I...they...I won’t allow it!_ **Not in my box** _!”_

_“And what are you going to do about it?” Jeanette asked. “Politely ask them to stop? That wouldn’t work very well. Face it, Erik--you can’t do anything to stop them! I wonder who they are?”_

_“I don’t want to know!”_

_“I do! Maybe I can watch.”_

_“You shall do no such thing!”_

_“Try and stop me!”_

From without came a muffled series of thankfully unintelligible sounds. Erik was quietly grateful that he had no way of witnessing the actions that went along with them. At least it wasn’t anyone he knew…

“Monsieur Piscarro...mmmmm...please, don’t touch that...what if someone should see us?”

_“Piscarro? No. It can’t be. It couldn’t be him,” Erik gasped. “It’s not possible.”_

_“We’ll find out soon enough,” Jeanette remarked._

“Then we’ll just go behind that curtain over there. Ohhh, but you are bewitching.” The man then paused briefly, still leaving adequate time for Erik’s mind to substitute several actions for the lack of dialogue, none of them mentionable. “And please, call me…”

“Yes, I know, I know. Donnavan,” the young woman said, sounding resigned. Then, without warning, Erik heard her skirts rustle annoyedly, followed by the distinct crack of her male companion’s head hitting the unforgiving stone pillar.

“Son of a malakka!” he groaned. “Why did you do that?”

_“It_ **is** _him!” Jeanette loudly exclaimed, jolting Erik all the more. “No one else ever used that word!”_

_“And for good reason! Jeanette, I don’t want you...no, I forbid you to listen to any more of this. Please leave--I’ll deal with this myself. I’ve endured it before…”  
“No, I want to hear every word. When they go behind that curtain, I want to be there.” J’s expression suddenly became more contemplatively serious than Erik had ever seen it. “Besides, you need me, whether you’d like to admit it or not.”_

_Erik didn’t know quite how to take that. “My dear, you speak truer than you know. Very well--for my own benefit, I’ll allow you to stay. Only promise me that you won’t go out and watch.”_

“Who, me? Whatever makes you think that I’d do something like that?”

“I had a very good reason! Did I not ask you just now not to touch me there?”

“Neither of my hands were anywhere near that--”

“I do not mean just touching with _hands_ , Monsieur.”

“All right, then. I’ll keep my lips in their proper place--upon yours--” the silence within the box was interrupted by the light, wet sound of a long and passionate kiss, “and my hands where they belong.”

There was a surprised shriek from the woman. “What are you doing, Donnavan? Please put me down!”

“Not until we’ve reached those velvet curtains, and are safely behind them.”

“But they’re not even that far away--I could easily walk there myself.”

“Yes, but what kind of a gentleman would I be if I allowed you to do that? Besides, I don’t mind at all. Ah, here we are. After you, Estelle.”

“Why thank you, Donnavan, but what are we...my, but it’s dark back here. I can’t see a thing.”

“That’s why I brought you back here. The curtains are also far enough away from the wall to hide our actions from everyone else.”

“It’s also terribly warm. Do you mind if I--no, I shouldn’t.”

“Do I mind if you what, Estelle?”

“No, I mustn’t. I can’t--not in your company. It wouldn’t be proper to remove--”

“Don’t be silly. I can’t see anything you do, remember?”

“Well, I suppose that I could. It would be a bit of a help to me.”

“Certainly couldn’t hurt. Here, let me help you.”

“Donnavan, why are you taking that off?”

“For one reason only--so that I can do _this_. Do you like it?”

“Ohhhhh...Yes, in spite of myself, I do. But...ohhh...it feels so very wicked.”

“Wicked? Why?”

“Simply because no one has ever put their arms around me in quite that way before.”

“Really? Then I’m honored to be the first to embrace such an enchanting woman as yourself, and to kiss you, here...How old are you, Estelle?”

“Twenty-six; and you?”

“Twenty-six. Ah, how well I remember twenty-six--the age of second burning, the renewal of the fire.”

“You _remember_ \--Donnavan, I daresay you’re old enough to be my father.”

“Yes, but still young enough to do _this_.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which I am a tease, but I promise, this is legit where the page breaks were for the original document, so this is how the chapters be.

_Intermission came and passed far too quickly for Erik’s liking. Jeanette was leaning against the inside of the pillar, straining to catch every phrase that escaped the lovers’ lips. At odd, irregular intervals she would giggle unabashedly. Meanwhile, Erik’s palms sweated profusely, and his ears were turning bright red._

_“They didn’t even leave for intermission--they just **stayed** back there the entire time!”_

_“Well, you can’t exactly blame them for not wanting to go. After all, all she’s wearing is her corset and a petticoat, and he’s stripped down to his trousers--_

_Erik shuddered involuntarily. “My dear, in all honesty, I wish you hadn’t told me that. At least I can console myself with the fact that Marie didn’t interrupt...that…_

_“Oh, they’re not even that far along,” Jeanette scoffed. “He’s still wearing his breeches, remember? Last I heard, he was still kissing her and calling her his ‘angel’.” She paused abruptly, pressed closer to the smooth marble, and announced, to Erik’s dismay, “Never mind what I just said. There go her underthings--” She grinned slyly. “And his trousers.”  
_


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which I seriously wonder where the rest of the pages of this story have gotten to, and whether I should write it a new ending.

“You are beautiful. All of you. Especially this part.”

“How can you be certain of that? After all, it’s very dark.”

“I trust my intuition, Estelle. that’s how I...Estelle, don’t put your hand there...unhhh...I never thought of doing that before.”

“Was it wrong?”

“No, just different. Actually, it felt rather nice. See?”

 

“My angel, my beautiful, exquisite angel…”“That was--that is, it was--I can’t find the words. They’ve completely abandoned me.”

“That’s a very good sign. Estelle, my treasure, I’ll do it again, but could you please--”

“What?”

“Move just the slightest bit to the right, and towards me. There now, that’s perfect.”

“Professor DeChancie never said anything about this.”

“Your hair is so luxuriantly--what was that? Who’s Professor DeChancie?”

“He is the writer of the etiquette book that I was taught from at finishing school.”

“Well, that explains it. Professor DeChancie didn’t know anything about this. Move just a bit closer--there…”

“We shouldn’t be doing this, Donnavan...oh, don’t listen to me.”


End file.
